Professional
by Phantom Typewriter
Summary: ...after all, this is my job. I'm a Professional. Oneshot, slightly dark fic.


Author's Notes: This is a kind of odd idea that just popped into my head one day. It's a bit darker than what I normally write, and it's more or less about all of the FF8 characters, but I decided to write it from the perspective of Irvine, at least for now. This is a one-shot story, but I may write a sequel or two from the perspectives of different characters. At any rate, here it is; let me know what you think of it.

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-Tick, tock, tick, tock-

The clock keeps ticking, every second, every hour, every day. Time keeps disappearing. Every moment that passes changes us, and the more we change, the more time seems to stand still.

How long since the moment time started slowing down?

_Three years,_

_Four months,_

_Thirteen days,_

_Six hours,_

_Forty-two minutes, and..._

My eyes glance up to the clock by the window, the ever-ticking stopwatch that Quistis placed there one day, counting each second since the moment we returned from Time Compression. She must have known what was happening then; maybe she wanted a reminder of better days.

Or maybe she's a sadist at heart, and just enjoys watching the seconds since we had our sanity tick off the clock and disappear.

_Twenty-three seconds._

If I could jump back in time to the moment when that clock started ticking, I probably wouldn't believe that we could have ever come this far, but here we are anyway...

"Kinneas," Squall addresses me from across the briefing room table. I don't take my eyes off the clock. I don't even change my expression. It doesn't matter, Squall knows I heard him – no, scratch that. He's not Squall anymore, is he? He's 'The Commander', and he's a SeeD, first and foremost.

The Commander slides a folder across the length of the superbly polished glass table. It slides clean across, stopping as it hits my hand. I glance down, opening the folder up and looking over its contents. On the front is all the information they know I need; the man's name, his face on a picture, where he is, where he works, and all the technical info and other SeeD professional bullshit to make sure I don't mix up my weapons or even bother to think about what I'm doing. After all, the job is so much easier when you don't think or feel anything.

"Just one?"

"That's what they paid us for." Squ- eh... no. 'The Commander' replies in the same characteristic tone he always has. The same tone that makes the old Squall sound like the nicest guy in the world.

"Family or friends?"

"It's of no concern to us. We weren't paid to deal with the backlash, and we won't be taking official credit for the operation."

_Oh, right. Political backlash is the most important thing to think about, not whether or not this man has a family that he cares about that might be mortified to find that they're beloved father was shot dead in the open streets of Deling._

"You mean _assassination_, not _operation_." Without another word, I take the first pages out of the folder and leave the rest on the table. I walk up to the wall, the six cabinets positioned there...

_Number Five._

It's a better name than 'Irvine' after all, right? It's easier to forget that I'm a human being this way.

I open the cabinet and take my things. My weapons – all six of them – and identification and all the other random crap SeeD gives me to keep track of me. Radios, GPS tracking beacons... Why don't you just put a shock leash on me and drop the illusion that I'm actually worth a damn as a human being? Stop pretending that I'm more than just a tool to you.

But who am I to say any of that? After all, this is my job...

...after all, I'm a Professional.

I don't know why, but I go back to the folder. I drop the pages I took back inside and pick it up to take it with me. The Commander says nothing. We both know I have a job to do. So long as I do it, what else matters to SeeD?

Hours tick by and the world flies past me. Balamb, the train, Deling... and finally the shop front overlooking the café across the street where the man was scheduled to meet his associates.

'Trenn Martz; Operational Director of Galbadian foreign affairs, local sector, Deling City. Responsible for providing asylum to Dollet political refugees opposed to the new regime and providing them with transportation out of Galbadia to Fisherman's Horizon.'

Of course, FH is one of the only three places in the world that is officially neutral to world affairs and, according to 'official global sanctions', it is a permanent non-combat zone. The refugees can't be touched if they're in FH, and before long they'll be gone. New names, new passports, off to Esthar or Trabia or Balamb, to disappear and never be caught. It's the same for all the refugees who enter FH. They come, reinvent themselves, get shuffled around the ever-expanding town a thousand times under a dozen J. Doe aliases and by the time they leave, nobody else knows who they are anymore. Once they're gone, there's no way to trace them.

And this man broke the sacred taboo of never rocking the boat. Too bad for him, apparently. Now he's going to die for it.

The man arrives at the café with one of his bodyguards. His associate is late. His associate is also a Dollet operative working in conjunction with the G-government, who's making sure that he leaves as much time as possible for the SeeD assassin to get into place to account for any possible delays. Of course, I got here early and easily. I'm one of the nine SeeDs that can go anywhere without people asking questions. I'm famous, I'm dangerous, and I have a high enough rank in SeeD that I can push anyone around.

So I draw my gun; my first gun, at any rate. I take aim with the sniper rifle, unlock the safety, and wait. I wait until the café area is cleared and the customers are seated so that I can't miss and hit one of them by accident. I wait until the bodyguard is looking the other way. I wait until...

The associate arrives. The man who set this up. A cold-blooded, single, single-minded operative built for just this purpose. Set-up and clean-up, to make sure that no loose ends are left untied.

'Wife, Cassandra Martz; children, Ebony Martz, Xavier Martz, Trandin Martz,"

_The man likes exotic names, that's for sure..._

'...Daren Martz, Ophelia Martz, Celestine Martz.'

A wife and six children, two of which are barely over four years old, and the oldest of which is barely a teenager. Of course, they'll understand; their father had to die because Dollet didn't like him and he made a few mistakes.

'What were his mistakes?' Oh, you know, protecting harmless, non-confrontational refugees who just wanted to live normal lives and not be murdered by the new Dollet regime.

But who am I to judge? This is my job, and I just have to do it, regardless of who suffers as a result, or even whether or not it's the right person suffering for it.

I should never have picked up that damn folder. I should have just taken the first pages and left the rest of the information behind, especially the profile pages. It doesn't help me to have all this extra mental baggage.

The moment of truth now. All I have to do is take aim, pull the trigger, then walk away and let Dollet and Galbadia deal with the clean-up.

So why can't I? Why am I hesitating?

Because a part of me doesn't want to fire. I'm a professional, but I'm also a human, to the detriment of my mission.

So which is it? Am I a human who was taught to be a professional?

Or a professional who is unfortunate enough to also be a human?

A narrow my eye as I look through the scope, adjusting my aim slightly.

I guess it's always been the truth of my existence; this is what I'm good at. Even when I was a kid, I was always playing games with imaginary guns.

'BANG', you're dead.

Once we got the toy guns, I'd always win, because I was always better. And now that I have real guns, I still win. Only now it's not a game, and they don't walk away to play again.

So now it's not Cops and Robbers anymore, it's all soldiers and politics. It's... chess. When you lose a piece, it's gone forever, and you keep playing until all of the other side's pieces are gone.

This is just one more piece in the game.

I'm a professional – a professional soldier, not a professional assassin – and _this_ is my duty.

-click-

-BANG-

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Author's Notes: I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to end this, but there it is, regardless. As I said, this is a one-shot, but I may write a sequel from another character's perspective later on. Right now I have some other stories to work on, so I doubt I'll be writing it immediately. R&R and let me know what you think of it – review, compliment, flame, whatever. It's up to you.


End file.
